We'll Start With The Riding Crop
by Anderswoon
Summary: Post – Reichenbach, John is in a whirlwind of emotion over Sherlock's impossible return. *Rated M for future smut.
1. Asleep

He gazed towards Sherlock, who was sleeping motionlessly. He could never understand how Sherlock managed to stay in the same position throughout his brief sleep: lying on his right side, face towards the window, quilt tucked under his chin for security.

"John, get a bloody grip," He thought to himself, "He promise he'd never leave… again"

The ex – army medic stared intently at Sherlock's beautiful cheekbones, longing and waiting to touch. He knew he mustn't. His eyebrows furrowed into his forehead as he thought about the whole situation… Rich Brook, Moriarty, The Fall… Everything. Thinking about it even now, made him transport back to when he saw Sherlock, his best friend, his lover, his_ life, _jump to his supposed death. Even in his memory, he could still smell the blood. So much blood.

Ever since John and Sherlock had moved in together, in a completely twisted turn of fate – or Mike, depending on your views on destiny – they'd had a relationship that could be described as turbulent at its best. As cliché as it is, they knew they were meant to be together as soon as they'd laid eyes on each other. John remembered noting the way Sherlock's lips formed a perfect cupids' bow and how… darkness filled his eyes. John, of course, knew by now the reason for that: Unresolved family issues with both his mother and obviously Mycroft, his agony of a lonely childhood and the drug – addled times of his young adulthood. John didn't even know that you could get cocaine back in their day, but then again, if anyone can get their hands on a gram of pure Columbian snow, it'd be Sherlock fucking Holmes. Even now, when Sherlock had a '7% problem', his homeless network and him hunted the best within 12 minutes.

John's normally exasperated face rose, as his mouth curved.

"Sherlock fucking Holmes." He exhaled. He had finally accepted that Sherlock was back in his life for good. John needed to know he'd never leave again.

He stood up.

In his right hand, he held soft, leather riding crop. Gently, he tapped the splayed end on his opposite palm. He quivered under the delicious pleasure he knew he would gain from this.

He had to make sure Sherlock knew that he could never leave again.


	2. Dawn

John fingered the leather; the thought of causing Sherlock pain was exciting him more than it should. He took another tenacious step forward. His loins stirred. He then noticed he was hard _there._ Even the mere thought of having Sherlock bent in every position imaginable, begging and screaming for his mercy and forgiveness, made John feel lightheadedly drunk with a primal yearning.

Sherlock suddenly stirred, and gently yawned, his mouth opening like a kitten searching for its mother's teat. John stopped. All of the excitement flowed out of him, and was replaced with a crimson shade of shame. He loved Sherlock. He could never do this to him.

"Fuck."

He muttered quietly, before cautiously tip – toeing out of the room. As soon as he left the guarded gates of Sherlock's room, he went and slid into his chair. John held his head heavy in his hands, with his heart hammering, weighed down by remorse. His eyes prickled with tears, as he thought about what he was going to do…

"Morning." Said a baritone voice: monotonous, yet finer than any silk. John's eyes fluttered open. He was still in his chair. After a brief moment of "where-the-fuck-am-I?", he internally groaned as he recalled the previous night.

"Ah, yes, g'morning." John managed to spit out, despite the rising lump in his throat. His eyes were so raw; reds, purples and blues clotted together, much like the beautiful stained glass window of a church.

Sherlock approached John from behind and stood lordly in front of him, tying up his infamous scarf.

"So, are we ready? You know how it irks me when you keep me waiting."

John looked up at Sherlock with confusion. Then he remembered.

"Oh, fuck, yes! The case, with the – the…"

"With the dwarf serial killer, yes. Honestly John, do keep up." Sherlock sighed, before quick stepping it to the top of the stairs.

John stood up, but remained rooted to the spot momentarily. His mind whirred and whizzed faster than any computer, his emotions raced and ran faster than any horse. Before he could open his mouth, Sherlock pirouetted around and an object came flying directly at John, who instinctively ducked.

"By the way, John, you left this in my room last night." Sherlock smirked, before almost gaily skipping down the stairs.

"Morning, Mrs. Hudson!" John could hear him say.

In an utter muddle, he looked around, before spotting it. He knelt down. There it was. Wedged in the fireplace was the riding crop.

"Fuck. Shit. Bollocks!" John shouted, furiously and frustratingly.

"Enough of that language, young man! I may have a hip, but I won't hesitate in coming up there and giving you a good telling off!" Mrs. Hudson trilled from the ground floor.

John slumped. In shame. In embarrassment. In pain.

Sherlock knew.


End file.
